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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: poetry

To See the Earth in Vast Expanse

17 Saturday Jul 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

flight, poem, poetry, sunrise, sunset, technology

Photo by Kristin Vogt on Pexels.com

To see the earth in vast expanse,

That far forge of crimson fire,

Miles of cloudiflower faces, mewling Maine Coon cats,

Puppies romping and the grinning cheeks of witches, 

Waves and waves – a host of golden waffledills. 

Photo by paul voie on Pexels.com

Above the smoky wisps,

I spy the wink of evening star. 

Then, she shyly sheds her veil, 

And still, still I see the endless sunset:

Ruby opalescences 

Knife-blade thin along the margin of the sea sky scape.

Photo by Izaac Elms on Pexels.com

Hawaii? 

This is no escape, but a plunge

Into the very midst of it all. 

My eyes hurt, but I forget to blink.

Alice, Alice, what you dreamed, I live — 

For there below me lies the earth in vast expanse.

Huge frogs, gigantic prawns,

Rhinos chasing Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

So much we take for granted.

What would my grandfather’s grandfather have given for

This moment?

Or this, or this?

Ever on it goes. 

Sailing on this sea of air, the very air we breathe,

Toward vacation or catastrophe. 

That first, the evening star

Winkling, twinkling her eye at me again through her veil, 

Ogling me with lust;

Then, with cold appraising passion

Through the porthole of the 757.

Photo by Vitor Almeida on Pexels.com

On wings of steel,

On wings of steel, 

I ride my metal steed!

I follow the sunset!

I sing the body electric! 

It may be indeed that these are the worst of times.

But it may be too that these are the best of times. 

What do you think, Merlin? 

——————

(An earlier version of this poem appeared in World’s Strand: An International Anthology of Poetry. ISBN 3-934285 55-4)

Life is a Dance

Is a Dream

Take a glance join the dance

How the nightingale learned to sing

It needs a new starter

A wildly webbed world 

The watershed virus

The bubble people

Who are the speakers for the dead?

Dance a Whirling While or Three

15 Thursday Jul 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

poem, poetry

Every once in a while, 

Every so often,

It seems quite worth our while

To take a glance 

At what is outside our 

Usual reference Frame, 

That habitual way of seeing

And notice just this once instead

The very essence of our being.

In truth, you see,

We are each a universe of miracles.

After 4.5 billion years of trying, 

At last, long last, we now begin, 

Begin

To understand what we are spying. 

We are a universe of miracles

Surrounded by a sea of miracles:

The cat beside me;

The chair she lies upon

While she licks her fur —

With her dampish tongue of bur;

The house that holds us both;

The computer that I type upon; 

The internet that links me 

To you

And you

And you

And you

All across our common miracle:

That Eden

That garden of green and blue 

That whirling ball, 

Of ocean, river, stream, and waterfall. 

That garden filled with flowers

Which the prism of evolution 

(Or creation if you prefer)

Has refracted into a revolution 

Of colors, shapes, and sizes. 

There are no greater prizes; 

Nor more wondrous surprises.  

We are here. 

We are alive. 

Each of us:

Seventy trillion cells apiece. 

We are a universe of miracles.

The product of 4.5 billion years of trying.

Most of us — 

Cat be nimble;

Mouse be quick;

Human living in a house of brick;

Humans who have built the house, 

Every human being 

And every, every living being. 

We dance this dance together, 

Don’t you see? 

The music never ends, 

The dance will morph around a billion bends. 

And every move of every player, 

Telegraphs its fireworks display 

Like a soothsayer 

Like a prophet, 

Like a sinner, 

Like a saint. 

Ever-changing, 

Ever-ranging 

In our planet’s spiral dance

Across the utter and unspeakable vastness of space

Across the everywhere of place. 

Take a glance.

I know we buzz as busily as a bee

With little time to contemplate eternity. 

But take a glimpse every now and then, 

You might be shocked at what you see. 

Look beyond the daily grind 

And you will find

Millions of kinds of minds 

Of creatures large and small

And that’s not all!

They are dancing each and every one!

In that great and magic dance of life!

On and on the music goes.

On and on the rhythm flows. 

On and on the mystery grows.

Just because our own brief turn will end at last. 

That doesn’t end that endless dance divine!

No matter how you moan; no matter how you whine,

The earth will sing and spin even when your life has passed

(So fast). 

Just take a little peek and you at last will see

You change, you morph, you flash. 

But, regardless of your stash of cash

You won’t outlast infinity; 

You won’t outwit eternity.

Don’t plot & scheme to check & slay and fight & clash.

No, help our cousins on this great green spaceship earth.

Help make this dance more graceful, fine, & filled with mirth. 

You can dance your dance without destroying; 

You can do your thing without annoying.

You have a million ways to thrill 

Why pick out one instead to kill? 

The sun is sinking red and low 

The wind begins to blow and flow

Into the pines who dance with love

Inviting air and water, dirt and sun,

To join her in her laughing life-long dance

“You too can join in all the fun!

Become a part of me and you’ll have won!” 

Take the time to take a glance.

The ordinary world we live in is 

Extraordinary in every single way!

Every molecule of it sings.

Every moment has its million miracles! 

Take the hands on either side. 

Across the world, the world is wide. 

We’re divided just as far as we’ve decided we can be.

This division shows a silly decision; 

Not an ever-fixed reality.  

When we see the truth, 

We will have won.

The truth

Is that we’re one.

————————————-

Essays on America try to make sense of current politics in America though many of the issues extend beyond American borders.

Here’s a link, e.g., to an essay about how it can be hard to change your mind. 

The Myths of the Veritas is a fictional series that explores leadership, ethics, and empathy in another time and place. Our tale begins as the leader/shaman of the Veritas tribe seeks an eventual successor so she devises a series of increasingly difficult trials that mainly test empathy.

Here’s a link to The First Ring of Empathy.  

You might find value in this attempt to catalog “best practices” in teamwork and collaboration in the form of a Pattern Language. 

Here’s a link to the introduction.

Here’s a link to the index of Patterns. 

The Door without a Key

07 Wednesday Jul 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

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Tags

contradiction, dilemma, life, poem, poetry, puzzle

There was a door that lacked a key;

There was a box without a door;

Insoluble viewed as mystery…

Yet here’s the truth at very core:

You are not inside that cell 

No. You are outside — outside it all. 

The only thing? You bought the “SELL!”

Inside you? The only wall. 

Inside of you? The Master key. 

Unlock yourself to all of Life, 

You can learn beyond humanity.

You’ll help end the endless strife. 

Unlock your thoughts & preconceptions 

As best you can and you will see

A hundred paths and new perceptions!

Life is there for you to be.

Don’t waste your time on triviality;

Embrace instead infinity.

——————————-

Here’s a link to a chapter from “The Myths of the Veritas” which relates the same puzzle in a different form: https://petersironwood.com/2020/11/18/two-boxes-each-contains-the-other-boxs-key/

Two Boxes: Each Contains the Other Box’s Key

Thinking Tools 

A Pattern Language for Collaboration & Teamwork 

Roar, Ocean, Roar

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Author page on Amazon

Divining Divinity

29 Tuesday Jun 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

ecsatsy, life, mindfulness, nature, peace, poem, poetry

It seemed your path had just begun;

Yet here you are again, again: 

Another trip around the sun.

Playing out your heart to win.

When you move & check & slay

I hope you save some time for play. 

At end of day, who can say, 

They’ve truly won? The truth, I say: 

We’re all just one. We’re one.

If all the joy you ever feel 

Is when you hold the golden prize,

You’ve missed the real within the deal;

You’ve missed the deal within what’s real. 

Surprise! Surprise! 

You could instead find joyous joy 

In every move; in every shot. 

You need not be a dull robot;

You need not play the useful toy. 

All it takes is letting be

In life’s essential ecstasy. 

It’s all there is — yet quite enough.

It’s not about acquired stuff 

In the attic, coats of dust, 

Nothing but a coat of “must.” 

Feel your leafness in Life’s Tree. 

You be you and I’ll be me. 

Your mind is useful in a pinch;

Don’t let it steer your every inch.


He and she? — all part of we 

Exploring all Infinity; 

Sharing Life’s discovery;

Each being each our eachest each 

Extends our reach while teachers teach. 

Be the Hamlet! Eat that peach!

In every dance, you’ll feel romance. 

In every glance, you’ll seize your chance.

In every blade of grass you’ll see,

Lurking there: Divinity.

Life is a dance

Take a glance & join the dance

Math Class: Who are you?

https://www.amazon.com/author/truthtable

As Michael’s Poem Itself Demonstrates

05 Saturday Jun 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

allusion, death, life, poem, poetry, TS Elliot

My college roommate Michael Brill recently published a poem that interweaves heavily with T. S. Eliot’s poem, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.

You may want to read those two poems first, before moving on to mine. In case you do, here are the links.

T.S. Eliot’s poem: T.S. Eliot’s poem

https://www.communitynews.org/princetoninfo/specialsections/summer_fiction_poetry/cicadian-rhythm-the-love-song-of-j-alfred-proof-gone/article_d4faefa2-cd8d-11eb-8fc7-f3b3094f5329.html

And, here’s my reply, entitled As Mike’s Poem Itself Demonstrates

Your poem is more than mere allusion. 

It’s really a cross-generational collusion: 

TSE & Michael’s word convolution 

Is artfully woven: two songs in fusion; 

It sings in polyphonic illusion

Sans our mind’s favorite delusion:

That our lives will reach conclusion

Numbered like ancestors antediluvian.

That wish is truly a tainted infusion. 

Yet our minds are limited; rife with confusion. 

We’re one with all Life — in all its profusion.

When it comes to Life, there is no seclusion.

With time enough, there is no exclusion. 

We’re all part of Life’s ongoing diffusion.  

Death recycles its vast & vital suffusion.

Your poem is more than mere allusion.

It’s really a cross-generational collusion,

Proof that death itself — is just illusion.

———————————

More about T. S. Elliot’s poem.

——————————-

Links to other poems of mine that touch on life and death

The Bubble People

Ambition 

Fate and Late on the Interstate

Life is a Dance

Mothers Day

Answers to your Many Questions 

Who are the Speakers for the Dead?

Comes the Dawn

Good Morning

The Tree of Life

Take a Glance – Join the Dance

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

——————————-

Author Page on Amazon

The Magic of Numbers

15 Saturday May 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

love, mother, Mother's Day, poem, poetry

(Today is the Ides of May — my mother’s birthday).

My mother:

In baseball (9 players per side; 9 innings long; 3 outs per side per inning)

They retire numbers for

Someone special.

The phone company — 

I’m not so sure.

“Reach out and touch someone.”

They used to say,

As though they:

Cared.

As though they cared,

About someone other than those billion little pictures of Washington, Lincoln and Grant

That flow from 

Your

Wallet to

Theirs.

Theirs.

Now, there’s a neat trick

Allowing us to communicate

(At the speed of light = 186, 000 miles per second; which despite their ads, they did not invent)

(as though that is not in everyone’s interest, for all to communicate)

And pay the price.

Meanwhile,

216-733-1751 jumps yet again into my head,

Is reassigned to a stranger.

The notion that my mom is dead…

Maybe, I should call her.

She died a year and a half ago.

But, hey, you never know, as the lottery ad proclaims.

What with technology these days.

Maybe DSL means “Dialing Sacred Lives.”

Or: 

“Delaying Special Losses.”

Who knows?

Would there be a recorded annoucement?

“We’re sorry. The person that you tried to reach is:

Dead 

And

The number has been retired.”

Or:

Just a long, low, incessant ring of infinite duration.

Silence amplified by (a scientifically engineered) sound into a lonlier tone.

Or:

Would some bleached blonde 25.3 year old divorcee with 2.21 kids answer?

I’d say:

“Uh, Hi. You don’t know me, but … 

Well, I thought I’d call; let you know that my mom used to have this…er…your phone number.

And, earlier it was mom and dad’s and before that even, it was my number too.”

And, what would we talk about then?

(Assuming she didn’t call 911 on her cell-phone)

The flow of electrons, human life, and money, perhaps.

The high cost* of telephone service.

*(Does it make you wonder when all the phone commercials are about how cheap they are?)

What would we talk about while her kids whined about breakfast in the background?

Lucky Charms, maybe, or Count Chocula. 

I loved sugar too when young, in all its fine forms.

(A teaspoon of sugar has more calories than you can imagine.)

I Manipulated

Mom (you have 1 and only 1 mother but 2 grandmothers and billions of grand-fish ancestors)

Into letting me ruin my teeth. 

Wasn’t I the smart one? 

I haven’t had a new dental problem for a long, long time.

But the old ones (year > 40) recur and recur.

I pick up the phone

(engineered according to the numbers)

Hear that reassuring hum,

(the frequency is scientifically set) 

And then return it, gently, gently,

To the cradle.

By human touch alone.

I don’t calculate

The dollar cost of this small act

Although undoubtedly I should.

I just return it, gently, gently 

To the cradle.

By human touch alone.

The Impossible

Peace

Camelot is in your Heart

Maybe it Needs a New Starter

The Most Serious Work

Is a Dream

The Jewels of November

Mother’s Day

Snowflake

The Tree of Life

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Come Back to the Light

“It’s not Your fault; send me money!”

07 Friday May 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

demagog, Democracy, Dictatorship, fascism, poem, poetry, politics, satire

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

“It ain’t your fault you lost again

My no. 

Don’t you know?

It isn’t anything to do with your sin.

I tell you once again:It’s the Mexican. 

He’s the one that made you lose. 

Send me money!

See, it’s funny, 

But the more you give to me, 

I’ll make sure you get to keep it every day,

Not a penny’ll go to Paraguay,

Nor a farthing go to foreign Chile. 

Photo by Andru00e9 Ulyssesdesalis on Pexels.com

If you don’t mind folks from overseas, 

I’ve got another group that is disease.

I’m sure there’s one that’ll make you feel

You’ll love me with that arduous zeal,

‘Cause I’ll get rid of who you think bad. 

No matter who we kill, I won’t be sad. 

Religion, Sect, or side of town, Region? Race?

Who calls their home in a  different place?

Who the person likes to love,

Whether they pray to God above, 

Whether they’re fans of Rock & Roll, 

Whether they like their humor Broad or Droll,

Whether beer or wine or whiskey or Coke

I’ll widen the wound and nasty the joke, 

’Til everyone feels that they’re ready to choke. 

Send me cash & I’ll solve every woe, Okey-Doke?

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

Oh, you sent me your cash and I lost a landslide? 

I didn’t win; you see that as downslide?

Not all my dear donor and friend, 

I will continue this country to rive and to rend. 

I will come back as dictator if you sing me my lie

I will come back from the dead if I die.

I just need a bit of cash to see this through

You’ll see it my way when you know what I knew.

So fork over a bit more, many millions are due.

Before I leave for Katmandu 

Where Poppa Putie pledged me passion Paradise 

He’d never fail me, I surmise.

Was that mike on?

Well, I’ll be damned.

Fake News, friends, no con! 

What you saw was a signal jammed. 

No con here, not even a whiff. 

Just do me a favor — Don’t Sniff. 

Photo by Leonid Danilov on Pexels.com

—————————————————-

The Truth Train 

The Pandemic Anti Academic

Absolute is not just a vodka

What about the butter dish?

The Watershed Virus

Stories Meant to Illustrate how a Sociopath Thinks

The Forest

12 Friday Mar 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

forest, GreenNewDeal, poem, poetry, psychology

[The poem below is one I wrote about 60 years ago. I still feel the same way today. So, here’s an example of something that hasn’t changed about me psychologically despite all that’s happened in my world and in the world..]

I think the forest is a holy place: 

A shrine of peace for bird and beast and man;

For when I stop to rest from life’s quick place,

I journey through the wood and there I scan

With eyes and mind a palace, emerald-walled.

I see the columns, black or gray or white;

And I am thrilled and my whole being enthralled

With this great tonic of the forest light

Which casts the tender green of maple leaves

About the dark, dank, mossy forest floor;

And then the stillness of the woodland cleaves,

When some beast’s call or cry is heard once more.

But I have often seen a sight of shame:

A forest where the trees are all the same;

Where every trunk’s conforming hue is gray

And every limb and twig is set in form.

I walk for miles and see no creature gay,

For everything must coincide, conform.

I see a fiery disc set sky aflame;

The sunset throws black shadows, thin and tall; 

Yet even this to beauty has no claim —

Each tree is three feet wide and forty tall.



Some people say that would be heavenly: 

To live where each bright day the setting sun

Shall beam and gleam and glimmer flawlessly.

But I would rather see some variation:



A world where trees are not at all the same —

Where every oak its unique beauty does acclaim. 


Author Page on Amazon

Come Back to the Light

07 Sunday Mar 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 29 Comments

Tags

America, light, patriotism, poem, poetry, truth, unity, USA

Come to the Light Side

The Bright Side

The Right Side.

Come join the Love Side

The Dove Side

Above Side.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Eschew that Hades Hate:

Pretending all is Great;

Lying through your Teeth;

Playing from Beneath;

Adoring gilded Calf.

There is no Seed;

It’s only Chaff.

There is no Rose;

Your Garden’s Weed. 

The Path you Chose:

A King sans Clothes. 

It’s Long Past the Hour

To Douse the Light 

And Worship Brainless Power;

Believe that Might makes Right.

Our Evolutionary Arc

Turned Long Ago away from Dark. 

Photo by David Trounce on Pexels.com

Now we Stand

Upon the Edge;

It’s Razor-Thin; 

Will Cut your Skin. 

It was not Planned;

No Time to Hedge.

We Must be Brave

And Face our Fate: 

Return to Cave; 

Or Elevate.

Photo by Darren Lawrence on Pexels.com

We Green our Land —

Or Decimate.

To Beautify

Or Putrefy?

Tend the Gardens; Build those Spires!

Put out! — don’t Spread those Fires! 

We can Use the Help of Everyone. 

Lend a Hand; You’ll see it’s Fun. 

By Giving you will surely Find

Improving Muscle and your Mind. 

By Giving, you’ll Receive the Greatest Gift.

By Stealing, you’ll Create a Rift;

You will Set your Soul Adrift;

You’ll Live a Pointless Life of Grift. 

Come to the Light Side

The Bright Side

The Right Side.

Come join the Love Side

The Dove Side

Above Side.

Together we will Make Earth Green;

We will See the Stars Unseen;

We will Feel the Love of All. 

We will Whirl & Twirl the Ball

While Dancing on the Razor Rim.

We will Smile & we will Sing,

We will Make the Hillsides Ring.

Every Cup, we’ll Fill to Brim. 

Come back Over to the Light.

Come back Over; Truth will Win. 

Come back Over; Join with True. 

We need Red and White and Blue. 

Come back Over; Quit Vain Sin.

Open your Eyes; Restore your Sight. 

Come back Over to the Light.

Come back Over to the Light. 

Open your Eyes; Restore your Sight.

Come back Over to the Light.

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

———————————————-

Other Poems 

https://petersironwood.com/2020/02/23/piano/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/02/26/race-place-space-face/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/01/the-bubble-people/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/04/ambition/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/05/the-impossible/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/07/peace/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/17/the-truth-train/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/17/maybe-it-needs-a-new-starter/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/25/the-joy-of-juggling/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/27/the-most-serious-work/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/03/30/is-a-dream/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/04/05/imagine-all-the-people/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/04/13/life-is-a-dance/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/04/16/the-pandemic-anti-acedemic/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/05/08/snowflake/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/05/23/you-gave-me-no-fangs/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/05/24/blood-red-blood/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/05/30/screaming-out-a-warning/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/06/20/the-watershed-virus/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/07/13/who-are-the-speakers-for-the-dead/

The Ailing King of Agitate

https://petersironwood.com/2020/08/11/put-in-the-fool-put-out-the-fool/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/08/17/roar-ocean-roar/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/08/20/try-the-truth/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/08/23/listen-you-can-hear-the-echoes-of-your-actions/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/09/06/my-captains-no-captain/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/09/09/comes-the-dawn/

Author Page on Amazon

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

14 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 116 Comments

Tags

collaboration, cooperation, harmony, leadership, poem, poetry, singing, teamwork

There’s a teeny little bird

And he’s sittin’ in a tree

And he thinks that he’s the cutest thing

That ever there could be

But he’s really quite absurd.

He’s never learned to truly sing.


His feathers all awry,

He isn’t very spry;

He cackles like a jackal.

Like a wounded pterodactyl, 

He whizzes on his wing.

And fails and flails at everything.



There’s a teeny tiny bird

Who sits atop my fountain. 

He screams he’s on a mountain

But he’s really quite absurd.

He cannot speak one loving word. 

He keeps on countin’ countin’ countin.’



He gawks and stalks the birdie girls

Who are hardly more than chicks. 

He squawks and talks and hurls

Hate and fear and bloated ticks.

He overlooks the very thing

That could have let his melodies ring.

This most have known for ages past:

It isn’t screaming hate or flying fast.

It’s loving all of every hue;

Whether black or white or red or blue.

Then the song itself turns true. 

And all return the love to you.



The song of sweet with every beat

Now ripples with fountain’s bleat,

Echoes from the mountain peak.

Tickling back upon the beak 

The world wide, the answer’s known.

No-one wins from a louder groan. 

There’s a teeny little bird

And he’s sittin’ in a tree.

At last, he sings eternally. 

It seems at last, he knows the Word. 

Some say “Life” and some say “Love.” 

Some say both — when sung in harmony. 

Let’s sing each to each in harmony. 

Let’s make this earth a better place.

Not only for the human race. 

Let’s remake Eden where we each can be.

Let’s sing “Love!”; Let’s sing “Life!” Let’s sing “Grace!”

Let’s sing in perfect harmony!


Introduction to a “Pattern Language” for Cooperation

Index to Pattern Language for Cooperation

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Life is a Dance

Piano

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

Roar, Ocean, Roar!

Author Page on Amazon

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